Promises of Victory
by Magi Silverwolf
Summary: The counters didn't matter. And even if they did, it didn't matter for Harry because no one would want him. (RAC fill)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Author's Note(s):** This piece was written for a challenge in the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments) on the FFN forum.  
 **The Challenge Information** :  
 **House** : Gryffindor  
 **Claimed Pairing:** Lunar Heroes (Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter)  
 **Day 21:** Counters that go up from 0 (at birth) until you meet your soulmate  
 **Extra Prompt[s]** : n/a  
 **Word Count** : 1923

-= LP =-

Promises of Victory

-= LP =-

"I thought I'd never find you, when suddenly I saw you." – Sleeping at Last, _Venus_

-= LP =-

It was Hermione who noticed first.

Harry had never paid attention to his counters beyond checking that they were covered. Aunt Petunia had been very strict about that—his freakish counters had to be covered. Harry didn't know if it was because there was two of them or if it was because one of them had stopped already. It didn't matter while Aunt Petunia's punishments if she caught sight of them did.

So it was just habit to ignore them. It wasn't like the counters even mattered. Everyone knew that being a soulmate didn't guarantee a happy ending of any sort, and Harry was honest enough to acknowledge that he wouldn't be anyone's first choice for a companion. He was selfish, lazy, and prone to losing his temper. He was also scrawny, messy, and ugly. That's before even considering the whole Dark Lord out for blood thing that he had going. It wouldn't be fair to ask anyone to put up with that.

Hermione only noticed because of stupid Umbridge's stupid quill anyway. Hermione had waited up with her stupid bowl and her stupid cloth and her stupid silence as she cleaned and wrapped the wounds which had stopped closing completely weeks ago. Harry hated every moment of the attention (he didn't, not really. In fact, he loved it, reveled in it, but don't tell anyone because then she might _stop_ ) and he was only allowing it because Hermione was terrifying if you defied her (which was true, but it had to be said that he also didn't know what to do with the care, so just going along with Hermione was the easiest course of action). Besides, the couch was comfy.

The witch had pushed up his sleeve and made a clucking noise with her tongue at the elastic bandage wrapped around his forearm. Her hands had quickly undone the covering before holding it away from them with two fingers and jabbing her wand at it. She didn't speak a spell, but the spell clearly worked anyway as the bandage paled to almost-new cleanliness. It was when she turned back to his arm that she had noticed.

"Harry!" she gasped. She turned his arm to get a better look at the twin strings of numbers. "Why didn't you say anything? This is a big deal!"

"No, it's really not," Harry argued, tugging on his arm half-heartedly and determinedly _not looking_ at the counters. "I know it's weird, but it's really not a big deal that there's two of them. It's just—" He stopped himself from using one of the terms that his family had used over the years. Hermione always got this pinched look on her face and really, he couldn't take it right now. He was just too tired from everything. "It's just part of the legend, ya know. It doesn't mean anything."

"You didn't notice? Harry, they've both _stopped_." She stared at the numbers with her lips moving. "The bigger one would have been recently—525,600 minutes in a year would make that 7,933,575 be at least fifteen years. I'll need to do the math, but that should come out to late August or early September."

"Maybe it's Umbridge," Harry muttered. That would be just his luck after all. "We've been wrong all this time. It's not that she hates me—it's just burning passion. She can't help wanting me to her toady self, warts and all— _ow_."

"That's quite enough, Mr. Potter," Hermione announced, not looking the slightest bit repentant for having just punched his arm. She sniffed disapprovingly and tried to look stern despite the twinkling of her brown eyes. "You are not allowed to talk about my friend's soulmate that way. I'm sure Umbridge is a delightful person, on the inside."

"Can we dig it out with a spoon?"

"Why a spoon? Surely there are better options!"

"A spoon is dull," Harry reminded her. Hermione still looked confused. Harry sighed. "It will hurt more."

He probably deserved the punch he saw her raise her hand for, so he just steeled himself to taking it. It was Hermione, so it was meant as affection, right? The hand closing around Hermione's wrist startled him as much as it did Hermione. His gaze snapped to the face of the person holding his friend.

Neville had never looked so thoroughly angry, at least not where Harry could see him. Harry had heard the rumors, of course. He wasn't nearly as oblivious as people always assumed. Paying attention to what the grapevine was saying about things had always been Harry's first defense against potential punishments for embarrassing the Dursleys, and if he caught something early enough, there was times he could nudge the story if he was very, very careful. So it was habit to keep it up at Hogwarts. So he had heard about the fights that Neville would get into occasionally, charging into some situation or another like a rabid cross between a badger and a lion.

It was just that Neville wasn't like that around Harry that had him confused. Everyone else he knew that had a temper had no problem showing it to him. Looking at him now, Harry could believe the rumors he had previously dismissed. It made Harry freeze in place, unable to look away from the potential threat.

But Neville wasn't focused on _him_.

"Friends do not hit each other, Hermione," Neville said with a carefully even tone. Hermione nodded but she still looked scared and confused by Neville's change in manner. "They especially don't hit a friend who _is used to it_."

The look of dawning horror upon Hermione's face made something twist in Harry's stomach. He wasn't used to—well, he was, but the Dursleys weren't _that_ bad. There were worse people out there. Neville made it sound like Harry was abused or something. The Dursleys were just—they were strict, is all. Harry's hand was shaking when he laid it on Neville's wrist, shaking his head frantically to negate the message carried in Neville's statement. Neville released Hermione's wrist at the touch and moved easily from looming over them to crouching in front of Harry with his hands on both of Harry's knobby knees.

"It isn't that bad," Harry tried to explain. Neville's expression was not the mask of righteous fury that had been directed at Hermione just moments before. It was soft and sad and Harry desperately needed to make it go away. He laid his hands on Neville's shoulders, determined to make him see reason. "It really isn't. It's only when I mess up—I'm bad at following rules. Snape's not wrong about that, even if he is a greasy git. So it's really not like how you're making it seem! It's not like they beat me or anything—and there are far worse places to live." Neville's expression hadn't change and something was squeezing Harry's heart. He could barely breathe. "I'm not weak or fragile! Hermione can hit me if she wants. I can take it. I'm not weak."

"Harry, I don't think you're weak," Neville stated. His hands felt warm and solid on Harry's knees, and yeah, maybe he liked the steady movement of Neville's thumbs stroking the inside of them. Neville's voice was steady as he spoke, as if he truly believed every word he was saying. Harry couldn't look away from the other boy's eyes. "I think you are a strong and capable wizard and an even better friend. That still doesn't mean that you deserve to be hit."

"I can take it," Harry whispered. "It's just Hermione playing around—I can take it."

"You don't have to, Harry. No one has the right to hurt you, not even in jest."

"No, that's not—that can't be—you're _lying_."

"Harry—"

"You have to be," Harry declared desperately. His fingers clenched at the fabric of Neville's sleep shirt as he held on to the only thing solid. "That's not true. Or maybe it is for everyone else? I'm not like them—I'm—" _a freak_ "—different. So it doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Neville insisted before stealing the last bit of Harry's ability to breathe. "You aren't different, Harry. Your comfort and security matters just as much as anyone else's. _No one has the right to hurt you_."

Harry couldn't breathe. Not even when he tried resisting the careful way Neville was prying open his fingers and multi-colored spots danced across his vision. The larger Gryffindor (and really, all of the other boys in his year were bigger than him, but as the second tallest and broadest one of the lot, Neville certainly dwarfed _him_ ) collected both of Harry's wrists into a gentle (but firm) grasp before pulling Harry from the couch. Pressed against the boy holding him, Harry felt the bands inside his chest loosen. (He shouldn't feel so safe being manhandled like this; it wasn't right. It wasn't normal but god, he didn't want Neville to let go, not at all. That grip on his wrist was probably the only thing keeping him from flying apart.) He barely heard the words that Neville was speaking, only the rhythm of them. He felt more than saw Hermione moving away with more speed than could have possibly been warranted by his pathetic breakdown. Oh, god, he was crying, wasn't he? Could this get any more embarrassing?

He startled when he felt someone wiggling into his previous spot on the couch, pressing harder into Neville. The hand holding his wrists didn't twitch at the jump, even as the hand rubbing his back paused in its circular pattern briefly. Whoever it was now had a leg on either side of his and Neville's little huddle. Thin fingers began to card through his (horribly messy) hair without tugging on any of it, not even when they encountered the occasional knot. Harry felt like he was melting, relaxing until all that was holding him up was that he didn't have anywhere to go. Exhausted, he tucked his face into Neville's neck, completely unwilling to face the world let alone the new person who had been forced to witness his fit.

"It's okay, Harry Potter," said the girl they had sat with on the train this year—the one that Ginny had called 'Loony Lovegood' and had the magazine with the funny article about Sirius. "It's perfectly normal to share moments like this with your soulmates, and no one else is here right now. Neville sent your friend to bed. We can sit here, just like this, for as long as you want. All that matters is _you_."

Something shifted with him as he realized that he _believed_ her evenly spoken words. He didn't have any strength to deny what she was saying—because she was just as convinced of that truth as Neville was of his view on people hurting him. Harry wanted to fight against it, because the knowledge _hurt_ , or rather it made every wound from the Dursleys hurt like they were freshly cut into his mind. Yet he didn't—he couldn't, not when he felt so completely _safe_ and _protected_ for the first time that he could remember. He was crying again, but it wasn't out of panic this time. It was relief.

And they just held onto him through it, promising with their continuing comfort that they would never let go now that they had him. Every moment of it, unmeasured by the counters on his arm, felt like a victory against the world.


End file.
